


Snapshots

by shreddedpatches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, M/M, Mormor Things, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shreddedpatches/pseuds/shreddedpatches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scrambled moments from Jim's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead

“It’s not fair, Seb,” Jim murmurs, running his fingers across the unmarked gravestone.  “Sherly has a friend now.”

Sebastian listens patiently and says nothing.  Sebastian never says anything anymore.  He is dead.

Jim sighs and slumps down next to the gravestone.  “He’s an army man.  A doctor.  Blond hair, big ears and a bigger nose.”  

“I don’t know what he sees in him,” Jim whispers, and he can almost see Sebastian nodding in sympathy to fill the silence.  But he can’t see Sebastian, not really.  Because Sebastian is dead.

A soft wind picks up, carding fingers through Jim’s hair and kicking dead leaves around the ground.  Jim wraps his wool coat around himself more tightly and scoots closer to the gravestone, wrapping his arm around it and leaning his head against it.  It’s almost like leaning against Sebastian again. 

Except it’s nothing like that.  Not at all.

“It’s not fair.  He—he doesn’t know what he has,” Jim says, and he’s not choking down sobs.  He _isn’t_.  “He can’t know, he won’t unless—unless he loses it.”

Jim doesn’t mention that _he_ didn’t know what he had until he lost it.  Jim wouldn’t ever admit something like that; it’s too sentimental.  Jim Moriarty doesn’t _do_ sentiment, or caring.

Sebastian doesn’t point it out, either, because Sebastian is dead.

“I’m going to burn them,” Jim says quietly.  He almost sounds sad, except he doesn’t, because Jim Moriarty doesn’t do sad, either.

For a moment, he wonders what Sebastian would have said to that, if he had been alive.  If he would have told Jim no, or if he would have nodded quietly and said nothing.  Jim thinks Sebastian would have understood.  Sebastian usually did—he’d let Jim do his crazy-mad-stupid things because he knew Jim needed something to keep him from eating himself alive.

But what Sebastian would have said doesn’t matter because Sebastian is dead. 

Jim just sits there, letting the minutes drip by as he leans on the gravestone and his mind wanders to darker and darker places.  The wind turns cold and the sky blushes and then it’s time to head home.  He shuffles to his feet reluctantly, wanting Sebastian’s calloused hands to pull him back, make him stay.

But Sebastian’s hands stay where they are because Sebastian is dead.  So Jim tucks his head towards his chest and wiggles his fingers in a goodbye and promises that he’ll see Sebastian again soon.


	2. Impossible Things

The blond is at the library again, his skin slick with sweat left over from this afternoon’s rugby practice.  He furrows his brows and chews on the end of his pencil before scribbling another wrong answer onto the worksheet before him and sighing. 

Integrals, this week.  James could help him, if he’d just look up and ask.  He won’t, though, because the blond would never suspect that the mousey-haired thirteen-year-old who sits across from him in the library every week after school and quietly reads love poems in other languages would know differential calculus.  No one would—no one believes in impossible things anymore.

James doesn’t mind.  As long as no one believes, he is invisible.  And invisible is pretty much ideal for a love-struck, adolescent murderer with big plans for the future.  Invisible lets him get closer.

The blond is beautiful.  No—gorgeous, James decides.  He studies the creature with stolen glances perfectly timed with delicate flips of the page.  James can tell just by looking at him that he’ll be starting university next year.  He’s well-built, athletic, easily over six feet tall.  James, who hasn’t had any major growth spurts yet, is certain that if he were to walk up and wrap his arms around the blond, he’d barely make it to his chest.  

His eyes are a stormy blue-green: sharp, focused.  James likes that a lot.  He likes his hands, too.  They’re huge in comparison to his own, with thick, trustworthy fingers.  James would love to see those hands wrapped around a struggling neck.  He would love to see those hands wrapped around his _own_ neck.

His nose is perfectly straight, begging to be broken.  There’s a small nick from this morning’s shave on his cheek, thin and red.  James would love to scrape the scab off with his teeth, feel the blood well in his mouth.  It would taste like metal and rust and sex and James would love it because, for once, the blood wouldn’t be his own.

There’s a lip-shaped bruise just barely protruding from the blonde’s shirt collar, and it fills James with rage.  He should have been the one to put it there, he thinks irrationally, and it takes more effort than it should to calm himself again.  _You’re hardly thirteen_ , he reminds himself.  _You barely look ten.  He’d never think of you like that._

 _Unless,_ James thinks, _he’s just as sick as me._

James has forgotten keep his glances discreet.  For the first time in his short life, he’s slipped up—he’s staring at the blond with those big, black eyes, and it’s the closest he’ll ever come to saying ‘I love you.’

And the blond has noticed.  Finally, he’s staring back at James, his lips quirked into a half-smile.  “Yes?” he asks gently, and his _voice_ —his voice is low and rough like thunder.  James can feel his face turning an unflattering shade of scarlet just from the sound of it.

“Um,” James says, desperately trying to remember how to form sentences.  He scoops his book of love poems up in his arms and clutches it to his chest like a shield.  “You might want to check your answers on problems six and eight and eleven.  And, um, on fifteen, too.”

Instead of laughing like he should, the blond fixes James with a stare sharp enough to match James’ own and nods and circles the problems James named.  And James’ stomach drops, because here was this impossibly beautiful creature doing something no one had ever done before.  Believing in him.

“I—I have to go now,” James says, standing up and sliding his school bag over his shoulder.  “But, um, I’m here after school every day except Thursday.  I could help you.  If you want.”

The blond snorts and shakes his head back and fourth, and for a moment James fears he said something that ruined the precious moment.  But then the blond speaks again in that low rumble and he realizes he had nothing to fear.  “I could use the help, to be honest.  My name’s Sebastian, by the way.”

“I’m—I’m Jim,” James squeaks, his face turning red again.  “I’ll, um, see you later?”

“Sure,” the blond—now Sebastian—says, giving a smile that makes James want to drop onto his knees.  But he doesn’t (not here and now, anyway; he’s better than that).  Instead, he smiles back—and it’s a real smile, for once—before turning and skipping away to dream of impossible things.


	3. Suits

“Jim.”

Sebastian pauses and takes a long drag on his cigarette before continuing. “Sometimes, I think you love your damn suits more than you love me.”

Jim raises his eyebrows and scoots closer to the other man without letting go of his fair share of most of the duvet.  He traces the scars on his lover’s forearm—hardly visible in the harsh moonlight—and pecks him on the cheek.  

“Sometimes, Sebastian, I think you’re right,” he drawls, smiling.

Sebastian can't tell if the smile is warm or cold.


	4. I Love You

The first time Sebastian says it, it is a mistake.  It falls out of his mouth because it has to—because it has been nine months of this whirlwind love affair that they both pretend isn’t happening, because every time he looks at Jim the words are there under his skin, burning him alive.  And he didn’t mean it.  Didn’t mean to say it, that is.  Meant it with all his heart. 

Jim is gracious.  Or maybe he just didn’t hear.  Maybe the bustle of London drowned out the words that were meant to stay burning under Sebastian’s skin, and Jim kept humming Magnificant in D Major not because he felt kind, but because he didn’t know. 

They kill a man that night.  Sebastian cuts the heart out of the body at Jim’s request, and Jim squeezes it, the delicate thing, until all its blood is pooled at his feet. 

Then they return home to the flat they both pretend they aren’t sharing and fuck loudly, Jim pinned against a wall.  When it is over, Jim runs a loving (no, not loving, never loving) hand across Sebastian’s cheeks before kissing him deeply, and Sebastian can still feel the ghost of the dead man’s blood on his lover’s fingers.

\---

The second time Sebastian says it, it is intentional.  Months have passed, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, it is fine.  It happens when they are out for dinner at Jim’s favorite Italian joint, the one they went to on their first not-a-date.  Sebastian looks him right in the eye and make sure that Jim knows what he is saying, and Jim, instead of taking Sebastian’s scarred hands and whispering it back, laughs harshly and says, “No you don’t,” before quickly assigning a new mark to Sebastian and burying himself in his pasta. 

That night, Jim returns to the loft Sebastian hasn’t been able to locate just yet and Sebastian goes bar crawling and ends up in the bed of a curvy blonde with a Romanian accent. He doesn’t see Jim for another week.

\---

The third time Sebastian says it, they are fighting.  Jim, who had previously been content with shouting and flinging his arms, breaks a lamp.  Then he breaks Sebastian’s nose.

\---

The fourth time Sebastian says it, Jim is high.  He is slumped over on the couch, unable to hold his eyes open, and when he sees Sebastian, he gets this big, goofy smile on his face that he can’t quite wipe off.  Sebastian bites down his anger and carries Jim to bed and when he starts ranting about why this needs to stop, the words slip out. 

He is terrified of how Jim will react with the drugs in his system, but Jim just pauses to think before saying, “Yeah, I guess so.”  They fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms and don’t talk about it in the morning.

\---

The fifth time Sebastian says it, they are in a hotel room in France, bandaging minor wounds from a meeting that went off the rails.  Sebastian is fuming, because he knows, just _knows_ Jim angered the other boss because he was trying to get hurt, or worse.  He starts shouting and Jim keeps repeating that he doesn’t want to talk about it and finally Sebastian says the three words he isn’t allowed to say because he needs Jim to shut up and listen and he doesn’t know what the fuck else will work.

And Jim, Jim doesn’t stare or laugh or scream like he’s supposed to.  He just cries, crumpling in on himself and howling like an animal and repeating through the tears that it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, never like this.  When the tears clear, Sebastian holds him and they fuck because that’s all they know how to do, and when it is over Jim whispers threats in Sebastian’s ear.

“If you ever leave me,” he says, “I will kill you.”

Sebastian knows it's as close to an _I love you_ as someone like Jim can get. 


End file.
